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I roll up, see this chick—red heels, smokin’ a cig. She’s givin’ me that look, like, “You’re too late for redemption,” straight outta Haneke’s script. I’m hyped, tho—heart’s pumpin’ like I’m in the ring. I saunter over, all smooth, sayin’, “Hey, baby, I must break you.” She smirks, tosses the cig, goes, “Fifty bucks, champ.” I’m like, damn, inflation’s real! Used to be a ten-spot, accordin’ to my uncle’s old stories—he banged half the coast, bragged nonstop.

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That hits me, ya know? I’m not just fighting fire. I’m fighting for this kid’s safety. So, I push harder. We finally get the flames under control, and I’m feeling like a champ. But then, outta nowhere, a gust of wind kicks up. It sends smoke right into my face. I’m coughing, sputtering, and I’m like, “Great, now I’m a hot mess.”

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